Chapter 78: The Son of Gerion
"After taking us prisoner," Ian began, his voice steady and confident, "Salladhor's ships set a course from the Summer Sea, heading for King's Landing. But as we passed through the Stepstones, we were ambushed by another pirate fleet. They had seven ships to our four—and that was counting our own vessel, the Laughing Lion. We were badly outnumbered."
As Ian spoke, he could see the pirates leaning in, their drunken boisterousness replaced by rapt attention.
"Salladhor came to us then. He told us the attackers were Ironborn, and he asked a question: would we take up arms and fight alongside him?"
"As you all know, the Ironborn and the men of the Westerlands are bitter, ancient enemies. My father and his sailors agreed without a moment's hesitation. He swore an oath on his family's honor, calling the Seven to witness. Satisfied, Uncle Salladhor gave us back our weapons and returned us to the deck of the Laughing Lion." Ian paused, letting the fabricated details settle.
"The battle began soon after. The Ironborn blew their warhorns, a terrible, howling sound that chilled the bone. Their longships were faster, more nimble, and they used that speed to slice through our formation, surrounding our ships and cutting us off from one another."
"They closed the distance too quickly for our ballistas to be of any use; the great machines became little more than decorations. In moments, the air was thick with grappling hooks, and the Ironborn began to board."
"I..." Ian paused, as if gathering a difficult memory. In truth, he was finding the story somewhat difficult to invent on the spot. His knowledge of this era's naval combat was still limited; his past life's experience was with the age of sail, of cannon fire and broadsides, not this brutal, close-quarters butchery.
But he had started, so he had to finish. He pressed on, his voice taking on a more personal tone. "I was only twelve years old at the time. The details of the battle are a blur. I remember being given a hand crossbow and told to hide amongst a pile of crates at the stern."
"An Ironborn threw his line not far from where I was hidden. I aimed my crossbow at the rail and waited."
"Soon, a head appeared."
"Most Ironborn don't bother with helmets, but this one was different. He wore an iron helm with cruel-looking horns. A captain, I thought. I held my breath for another second, waiting until his head was fully clear of the rail. Then I fired. The steel bolt flew true, sinking deep into his eye."
"Hah! Good lad!" a sailor shouted, slamming his mug on the table. The others cheered in agreement, as if they themselves had struck the blow.
"His death threw the reavers at the stern into chaos," Ian continued, "and our brave sailors cut them down one by one. But the victory was short-lived. One of them, a monster of a man, saw me hiding behind the crates. He saw me firing from the shadows and let out a roar. He hurled his axe."
"I ducked, and the axe head buried itself in a crate just behind me. The impact destabilized the entire stack, and the world dissolved into a chaos of splintering wood as the heavy boxes came crashing down, burying me completely. I took no further part in the battle."
"It was Uncle Salladhor's men who dug me out later. Only then did I learn that we had won. Outnumbered, we had beaten back those filthy Ironborn, sending them fleeing with four fewer ships and less than half their men."
"Huzzah!" The sailors roared again, raising their cups.
"My father had honored his oath," Ian concluded. "And Uncle Salladhor, in turn, waived our entire ransom and freed us on the spot. We abandoned our plans to continue to King's Landing. Instead, Uncle Salladhor himself escorted us all the way back to the Sea of Smoke. It was on that journey that he and my father became brothers."
"Begging your pardon, ser," Burris asked, his tone now deeply respectful. "Who is your father?"
"Gerion Lannister," Ian replied, letting the famous name hang in the air. "The younger brother of Lord Tywin Lannister. I am his son, Lucian. Seven years ago, I boarded the Laughing Lion and sailed with him."
He had originally chosen the name Lucian to potentially pose as the son of Ser Damion Lannister, but this new identity worked just as well. Gerion and Damion were from different generations, so the name remained perfectly plausible.
Sitting beside Ian, the young Ser Grantham subconsciously opened his mouth to ask when Ser Gerion had married. Before the words could form, he caught himself. I work for Ser Lucian for his coin, not for the name Lannister or the sigil of Casterly Rock. What does it matter to me if he is a trueborn son or a bastard?
Having settled the matter in his mind, Grantham wisely turned his gaze away and remained silent.
"Gerion Lannister?" one of Burris's men spoke up, his brow furrowed in thought. "Wasn't he the one who sailed to the ruins of Old Valyria to find the family sword, Brightroar?" The story was infamous among sailors; Gerion's high-profile departure had become something of a joke after he was never heard from again. "But... I heard he was..."
"And who do you believe?" Ian countered, his voice calm but firm. "Me, his son, who stands before you now? Or the whispers and rumors spread by men who wouldn't know Gerion Lannister if he bought them a drink?"
"Of course we believe you, my lord!" Burris interjected quickly, slapping the questioning sailor on the back of the head. "We mean no offense! What reason would a great lord have to lie to scum like us? One word from you, and our heads would be on spikes!"
"It is normal to have doubts," Ian said, smoothly waving a hand to placate the sailor. He shrugged, a look of weary resignation on his face. "After all, there has been no word of us for many years. We did indeed go to a very dangerous place. But no matter what happened, we are back."
We are back.
The simple phrase seemed to possess a profound magic. A current of emotion passed through the sailors. In an age where every voyage was a gamble with death, in the hearts of men who had all stared into the abyss of a watery grave, those three words held the weight of all their hopes. It was a testament to courage, a story in itself.
"A toast!" a sailor finally cried out, unable to restrain himself. He raised his cup high. "To the Prince of the Narrow Sea, and to Lord Gerion!"
Gerion held no lordship, but to these men, any Lannister of Casterly Rock was a lord, and that was good enough.
"And a toast to the sea!" Ian raised his own glass in response. "And to all her brave sailors!"
He knew, then, that he had them. He had earned their trust. The next step was to bring them into his plans.
Later, he would simply need to confirm that their ship had no new crew members, ruling out the presence of other players. With that done, these men—recruited under the banner of the son of Salladhor Saan's sworn brother—would become a powerful asset, strengthening his intelligence network and combat strength throughout the port of King's Landing.
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